Flatline
by IsmayDeVain
Summary: This is the first time Neal dies, but it isn't the last. He will stop breathing four more times and three of those times, his heart will stop beating. Peter will watch every time his friend dies. But the last time, the last time Neal's heart stills in his chest and his eyes stare without seeing, Peter will not be fast enough to bring him back. *Not a Character Death Story*


**A/N: I started writing this about a month ago. It's the longest one shot I've ever written, and I feel pretty good about it. I hope you all agree. Thanks for reading!  
**

* * *

_The first time Neal dies, Peter isn't expecting it and the shock of it paralyzes him._

_Because this isn't the way it's supposed to go. These people want information and they know Peter won't give it to them, no matter how hard they hit him. But they also know they don't have to touch Peter to make him talk. Not when they have Neal._

_So Peter has braced himself to watch Neal suffer, all the while trying to formulate a plan to get them out. But all thoughts of escape vanish and everything changes the moment one of the thugs places his hand over Neal's mouth and nose and doesn't let go._

* * *

Shant, a weasel-faced man with yellow teeth, grins at Peter, leaning casually against the wall and waiting for Peter to react as his goons smother the breath out of Neal.

He doesn't have to wait long.

"What the hell? You're killing him!" Peter shouts, straining against the zip ties around his wrists connecting him to the metal chair's arms.

Neal is practically convulsing, bucking against the hand cutting off his air supply. Tied to the old dental chair, he can't tear his head away. His frantic eyes seek out Peter, wide and wild and desperate. He fights vigorously, but Peter can see the light leaving him, his body falling limp against the chair, eyes half open, mouth slightly parted, chest completely still.

"No, Neal!" Peter shouts, but no matter how he struggles, there is nothing he can do.

The Thug 1 removes his hand, methodically wiping it on a white handkerchief. The Thug 2, a clean shaven man with a white scar across his right cheek, holds his hand over Neal's nose, nodding to Shant when no breath comes. Pushing away from the wall, he kneels next to Peter, smirking at the unbelieving stare that the agent holds on the lifeless body of his partner.

"I want you to understand, you have no control here," Shant whispers, "I hold your lives in my hands. I have the power to decide if you live or die."

Peter swallows, glaring angrily at his captor, a thousand threats and promises on his tongue, but they all die as he watches Thug 2 pull out an oxygen mask and pump. He places it on Neal's mouth and rythmically pumps oxygen into Neal's deprived lungs. Peter holds his own breath, waiting and praying, and then finally, Neal gasps and his eyes flutter.

"Do you see, Agent Burke?" Shant asks beside him, "I can kill you and bring you back to life just so I can kill you again. In here, you are the ants and I am God," he stood, still grinning smugly, "Maybe you should make a confession, Agent Burke, before you bring about the wrath of God."

Shant and his thugs leave Peter to glare furiously at the door and Neal to gasp in confusion and fear.

This is the first time Neal dies, but it isn't the last. He will stop breathing four more times and three of those times, his heart will stop beating. Peter will watch every time his friend dies. But the last time, the last time Neal's heart stills in his chest and his eyes stare without seeing, Peter will not be fast enough to bring him back.

* * *

Peter isn't sure if it even happened. It is so quick and surreal that for a moment, Peter wonders if he imagined it, like a horrible, very-detailed day dream.

But Neal is dragging in deep breaths like he is afraid it will be his last. And the raw fear in his eyes, there is no imagining that.

"Peter," Neal coughs out the name, "What the hell?"

"I don't know," Petter stutters, "He's insane."

"I gathered that. Normal captors don't start out an interrogation by killing one of their prisoners."

"No kidding," Peter mutters. He eyes Neal warily, "Are you okay?"

Neal arches an eyebrow at him, "I stopped breathing, Peter. What do you think?"

"Right, stupid question. How about this: Can you get free?"

Neal pulls on his wrist restraints uselessly, "I can't pick zip ties, unfortunately. What is this thing anyway?"

"Dentist's chair," Peter answers, "I'm guessing the reclining feature makes it easier to... you know."

Neal's eyes widen, "You think they'll do it again?"

Peter hesitates, but it is enough of an answer.

"What do they want?"

"I don't know. They didn't ask anything."

"Then why did they-"

"I think it was to make a point. Shant wants us to know who's in charge here."

Neal nods, resting his head against the chair and staring at the ceiling. Peter calculates the distance between them to be about five feet. He has a front row seat to Neal's suffering.

"What happened anyway?" Neal asks suddenly, "How did we get here?"

"What do you remember?"

"I...we were at the office right? And I went to get lunch from the deli down the street."

"Yeah, you were gone for twenty minutes. I got a text from you saying your card wouldn't work."

"I don't remember texting that. I don't even remember getting to the deli."

"That's because you did neither. They nabbed you at the alley and drugged you, texted me from your phone and then grabbed me when I passed the same alley."

Neal grunts in acceptance, and Peter is grateful he doesn't ask for more detail. Neal doesn't need to know that they didn't so much grab Peter as threaten to shoot a nearly-unconscious Neal in the head. Or that when Peter hesitated giving up his gun, the thug fired the gun only inches from Neal, the bullet ricocheting off the brick wall and spraying Neal with shrapnel. He certainly doesn't need to know that Peter dropped the gun like it'd burned him, desperate to keep Neal safe. Fat lot of good it did him.

"Peter, can you promise me something?"

Peter flicks his eyes to Neal's pale face, "We're getting out of here, Neal."

"I know," Neal says smirking, "that wasn't it."

"Just thought I'd make sure. What do you want me to promise?"

"Whatever they want, don't give it to them."

"Neal, this isn't-"

"Peter, they wouldn't go to this much trouble if they wanted to know something legal. And they've already shown how little regard they have for human life. So I think it's safe to assume that whatever they want to know, they'll use it to harm someone. You can't give it to them."

Peter clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth painfully together, "So I'm supposed to let them hurt you?"

Neal shrugs, "What is it Spock said: The needs of the many out way the needs of the one."

_Yeah, but you need to breathe_, Peter thought miserably.

"Never took you for the Star Trek type," Peter mutters.

"Mozzie," Neal smirks.

Peter snorts, "Some how, I believe that."

"You still haven't promised."

Peter bites the inside of his cheek, unable to meet Neal's eyes. He isn't sure he can make such a promise, the image of Neal's lifeless eyes still fresh in his mind. He doesn't know what he will do if Shant (slowly, surely, purposefully) hurts Neal.

"Peter."

He drags his eyes to Neal, startled to see the openly trusting and resigned expression on his face. It makes something cold and heavy slither through his stomach.

"It'll be okay," Neal says.

And isn't that just the icing on the cake? Peter is the agent; he is supposed to be the strong, confident one, the one who reassures Neal and keeps a level head. But he is barely holding it together, unwilling to admit just how much Neal's "death" has affected him. But what scares him the most is the thought of witnessing it again.

"Neal, I-"

The door to the empty, windowless room swings open, crashing against the wall and rattling the floor boards. The two thugs walk to either side of Neal's chair, flipping the lever to straighten the seat. Shant strolls into the room, leisurely closing the door behind him, grabbing a chair from the corner and straddling it in front of Peter.

"Got your bearings, Agent Burke?" Shant asks, grinning like a cheshire cat.

"What do you want, Shant? Who are you anyway?" Peter demands.

"I already told you, Burke," he spreads his arms out, "I am God."

"Funny," Peter deadpans, "You don't look like Morgan Freeman."

Shant smirks, and leans forward against his chair, "Such a cowboy. I knew you were going to be a tough one to crack. You have such a strong sense of justice. Like the Lone Ranger."

"More like Captain Kirk," Neal mutters. Peter glares at him.

"That was really the biggest problem, you know," Shant continues as if Neal hasn't spoken, "Grabbing you, hiding you, those were easy as pie, but making you talk? That was going to be a challenge."

"Well, I do the best I can," Peters snips.

"So, how to make the cowboy talk?" Shant stands, gesturing to Neal, "You take his side kick."

Neal, wisely, doesn't comment on the sidekick reference.

"It might make things easier," Peter says slowly, "if I knew what the hell you wanted."

"Cut to the chase, I like that," Shant straddles the chair again, "Five years ago, operation Mirror. Ring any bells."

Peter clenches his fists, "Not really."

"I think it does, but allow me to refresh your memory. A company called Epitech ran a Ponzi scheme, regularly feeding money to some top priority clients. Your team investigated, but you discovered other schemes as well, mainly a laundering operation for Manny Foxx."

"The mafia member?" Neal squeaks.

"The same," Shant says, "Remember now Burke?"

"We never nabbed Foxx," Peter answers, "He fled the country the morning we made the arrests."

"Manny was fortunate, but not completely. You see, in his haste to leave, Manny had to leave behind a nest egg, nearly five million in cash and a few family heirlooms. He wants it back."

"I don't have it," Peter says, "and as far as I know, the FBI didn't confiscate anything like that."

"No, but you did cut a deal with David Titus."

"What does he have to do with anything?"

"Everything, Burke. He built your case. His testimony alone put five men away. And in return for his stool pigeon tune, you put him in WitSec, but not before he took Manny's nest egg. So, you give me Titus, and I give you freedom."

"You want me to hand over a federal witness?" Peter shakes his head, "You're crazy."

Shant sighs, standing and kicking his chair to the wall, "I was hoping you'd be a little more reasonable. I thought maybe if you saw what we could do, you'd see sense, but," Shant shrugs, "maybe you need a little more incentive."

* * *

_The second time Neal dies, Peter is angry. He is angry at the situation. He is angry at Shant for doing this to Neal and making Peter watch. He is angry at the men killing Neal, men he swears to kill quickly and efficiently. But mostly, he is angry at himself because he is helpless, because he is powerless. Because Neal is in this because of Peter and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, Peter can do to stop it._

* * *

Peter has a chance to shout, Neal a chance to cry out, before Thug 1 has his hand clamped over Neal's mouth and nose. Thug 2 holds Neal's head, throwing his weight on Neal's shoulders.

If Neal fought wildly before, he is nearly hysterical now. His arms and legs strain against their bonds. His back arches; he throws his head from side to side, but the thugs' grips are relentless. His fingernails claw at the leather of the arm rests, leaving long grooves in their wake.

"Stop!" Peter shouts, but his pleas fall on deaf ears.

Shant stands back, watching with a smile and amusement in his eyes. Peter doesn't know what Shant enjoys more: Neal's suffering or Peter's helplessness.

"For God's sakes, enough!"

Shant examines his finger nails as if they're the most interesting thing in the world, "Will you tell me what I want to know?"

Peter bites his lip, his tongue freezing as the words form in his mouth. His heart says to shout them loud and clear, but his head knows better. Even if he were willing to turn over another man to his death, he knows that the minute he spills is the moment they die.

Unable to watch, Peter turns away, clenching his eyes shut, wishing he could cover his ears. He can hear Neal's muffled moans and whimpers as he valiantly fights to stay alive, and he can hear him losing. Then Shant is there, roughly jerking his head back and yanking his hair so that his eyes widen.

"I want you to see this, Burke. I want you to remember."

Neal's eyes are halfway open, watching him, their light dimming as his lungs fail him. His fingers twitch and his chest shudders, and all Peter can do is watch.

"Do you see his face, Burke? See how he begs for you to save him, believes that you will not let him die for some stranger he's never met. Such blind faith in you, and yet you fail him so quickly."

Neal's body gives out, becomes like a rag doll against the chair, but there is still a glimmer of life in his eyes. He is still holding on like an ember dying from the fire.

"Look at his eyes, Burke, look. Watch as the life finally leaves them."

Peter gasps, tears of grief pricking his eyes as he watches the thugs let Neal go and step away. The second time Peter sees Neal dead is somehow more horrific than the first. He is just as pale and limp as before, but now there are bruises coloring his face. Peter can see the marks of the thug's fingers around Neal's mouth and on his cheeks. His eyes are closed this time and somehow that makes it so much worse. Because Neal just looks like he is sleeping, like he will wake up any moment and smile at Peter because he worries too much.

"Do you know what oxygen deprivation does to a person, Burke?" Shant whispers wickedly behind him, "His brain will start dying after five minutes. Once that happens, brain damage is inevitable. It varies with each case. Will Neal be able to talk properly when he wakes up? Will he remember how to walk? Will he even wake up at all?"

"You sick son of a bitch," Peter gasps through his tears, "Do something!"

Shant chuckles, "You want me to bring your pet back, Burke, then you have to give me something. Where is Titus?"

"I don't know!"

"I don't believe you."

Thug 1 glances at his watch, "Two minutes, twenty-three seconds."

"That's the countdown, Burke. How long are you willing to let your friend stay dead?"

"Damn it, I don't know anything!"

Shant moves in front of him, leaning on his arm rests, his face only inches from Peter's, "The longer we wait, the harder it will be to bring him back. Where. Is. Titus?"

Peter inhales sharply, tries to calm his racing heart and keep his eyes trained on Shant, "I'm telling you, I don't know. I'm FBI, not WitSec. The minute we handed Titus over to the marshals, he stopped existing. They didn't tell me anything."

Shant studies him for what seems like forever, and Peter has to fight to keep from begging him to revive Neal. It won't do any good, he knows. Shant is in charge here; Shant has the power, and nothing Peter does is going to change his mind.

Slowly, Shant straightens and gives a minute nod to Thug 2. His minions jump into action with such urgency that Peter dares to actually believe they care if Neal lives or dies. Thug 1 pumps oxygen through the mask as Thug 2 takes Neal's pulse. After thirty seconds without a response, Thug 2 starts doing chest compressions.

"Every time we do this," Shant says gravely as he circles Peter's chair, "every time we keep him from breathing, his body weakens. His heart gets closer to stopping. His brain gets closer to dying. And it gets harder and harder to bring him back."

Peter can't blink, can't look away from Thug 2 pressing down on Neal's chest again and again, can't do anything but pray that it hasn't been too long. The thugs' faces are masks of concentration as they work diligently to save Neal's life. Peter wonders how long Shant has been planning this to have hired men that knew what they were doing, or to have trained his men in these medical procedures. His heart sinks a little more as he realizes that it's very possible they won't be making it out of this alive.

And then Neal breathes.

A harsh, deep cough erupts from his chest, makes him arch his back as he drags in one deep breath after another. He clenches his fists so tightly that his fingernails dig into his palms, leaving behind tiny crescents of blood. There are tears of pain and fear running down his cheeks. They match the ones running down Peter's face.

Shant doesn't say another word as he waves the thugs out of the room, following them out with one last meaningful glance at Peter. He doesn't have to say anything for Peter to understand.

This isn't the end. There will be a next time. So what will Peter choose?

* * *

Peter closes his eyes and just listens. The sound of Neal breathing, not matter how ragged and heavy, is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.

"Peter."

"I'm sorry, Neal."

"So am I."

Peter looks up sharply, "What the hell are you sorry for?"

Neal smirks, "I said I'd get lunch. Seems I kind of lied about that."

Peter isn't sure if he wants to laugh or cry right now. If Neal is making jokes, if he is trying to stay strong then so can Peter.

"You owe me," Peter says, matching Neal's smirk with one of his own, "My stomach is eating its own lining right now."

Neal chuckles, "Oh, like you couldn't stand to lose a few pounds."

"Are you calling me fat? Is that it? Well, excuse me for not having the perfect metabolism to eat pasta and wine and still be skinnier than a lamp post."

Neal out right laughs at that, and Peter suddenly has the overwhelming urge to cry again. Will this be the last time he hears his friend laugh? The thought of losing Neal (permanently), of watching him die (once and for all) is more than Peter can bare to think about.

"You're brooding," Neal murmurs, his eyes suddenly heavy, "You shouldn't do that. It'll give you wrinkles. Don't need to look old as well as fat."

Peter scoffs, but his mood doesn't lighten, "Jesus, Neal. I'm so sorry. I can't tell them anything."

"It's okay, Peter. I don't want you to."

"But I want to!" Peter shouts and even he is surprised by the ferocity of his words. Neal flinches slightly, but then regards him with an arched eyebrow and curious look, waiting for Peter to explain.

Peter takes a deep breath, "Neal, if I could, I'd tell them anything to make them stop this."

"I can take it, Peter."

"I can't."

The sad and completely honest admission rests between them in the silence. Neal watches Peter through half-lidded eyes and Peter suddenly can't meet his gaze. He wants to be the strong one; he wants to be able to crack a joke and take the next hit because it's the right thing to do. But it isn't him taking the hits, it's Neal.

"Peter," Neal says quietly, but it sounds so loud in this tiny room without windows, "I can do this. I can make it through whatever they do, but only if I know you're here. If I think you're going to crack, then I will. I'm only strong if you are."

"I'm not strong enough for this," Peter whispers, "I can't keep watching you die, Neal."

"You're the strongest person I know, Peter."

The soft confession is almost enough to push Peter over the edge. Looking at Neal, he sees the truth behind his words. He sees the blind faith that Shant pointed out, and he knows that he can't live up to it. He's only human. He's breakable.

But here's Neal, believing when he should be begging, carrying on when he should be giving in, and looking at Peter with unwavering trust. Peter knows he can't do this alone; he knows Neal can't do this alone either, but maybe together they can make it through.

Straightening in his chair, steeling himself for what's to come, Peter locks his eyes with Neal's and nods.

And Neal smiles.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Shant comes back, his two thugs in tow. He doesn't so much as glance at Peter as he grabs his chair and straddles it next to Neal. Peter's heart jumps in his chest and flutters with unease. Somehow, Shant being close to Neal is worse than him taunting Peter.

"Mr. Caffrey, I have to give you credit," Shant says, "Most men are sniveling for mercy after the second time around. But you seem stoic, so very sure of yourself."

Neal just looks at him, a mocking glint in his eyes that neither Shant not Peter misses. Peter has to smile to himself; the kid has guts.

"Do you know why I chose you, Mr. Caffrey?" Shant asks, "It isn't because you're an easy target. With that tracker around your ankle, taking you became a bit of a challenge. It took careful planning to be able to grab you and hide you still with in your range without the FBI finding out. So, why would I go to so much trouble to take you when there were so many other tantalizing possibilities?"

Neal doesn't flinch, barely blinks, stares Shant down like he isn't tied to a dental chair in the middle of God knows where. Shant smirks, leans close to his captive (literally) audience.

"It's because all the research I did, every person I talked to, they all said the same thing about you and Burke. You're partners, friends, brothers of bond that would do anything for each other. I'd hoped by bringing you into this, Burke would see how serious I was. And I was hoping his sentimental value of his partner would cloud his vision."

Peter flinches involuntarily. If any one else had said those words about him and Neal, he would have been touched, flattered even. But hearing them come from this snake's mouth somehow made them vile, sickening. And the implication they bring with them (he doesn't care about you, he's letting you die) makes his stomach turn.

Shant shifts back, allowing Neal some semblance of personal space, "But there was one thing that I didn't count on, unfortunately. I didn't expect you to be so resilient," he smiles, a cold, ugly thing that spreads across his face like a leech, "We'll have to fix that."

Peter watches in stunned disbelief as Thug 1 pulls out a knife and slides it effortlessly down Neal's left arm, slicing the flesh from the hollow of his elbow to the base of his hand. Neal gasps, too shocked to cry out as white hot pain flares up his arm. He bites his lip, closes his eyes, tries to ward off the pain, but the damage has been done. Warm blood flows easily from the wound, soaking his shirt and spilling on to the chair.

Shant turns his ugly grin towards Peter, "Shall we begin?"

* * *

_The third time Neal dies, Peter wishes he could die with him. He wishes he was any where else. Any where that doesn't have blood dripping on dirty linoleum from moon-white flesh. Any where that Neal isn't staring wide-eyed and vacant at a crumbling drop-tile ceiling, his chest still, his head bent back and his unmoving throat exposed. Any where else at all._

_Peter wishes he doesn't give a damn about Neal. He wishes it didn't hurt so much to watch his friend bleed and choke and cry. He wishes he could turn his emotions off like a faucet, so he doesn't have to feel the deep ache in his chest as Neal's body stops twitching._

_But mostly, Peter just wishes this would end._

* * *

"No pulse."

Something inside Peter shatters as Thug 1 makes this announcement, so matter-of-fact and uncaring.

"Blood loss makes him weaker," Shant explains casually, "The human body is an amazing thing, but it can be so easily damaged. His heart is trying so hard," he smirks at Peter, "but it seems to have failed."

Peter lunges in his seat and it's the closest he comes to hurting Shant. The arrogant man is standing next to him, mocking and taunting, reveling in Peter's pain. Peter moves, taking the whole chair with him, and plows into Shant, knocking him off balance and into the wall. Shant just laughs as Peter, still tied to the chair, falls to the ground on his side.

"Nice try, Burke, but this isn't my first session. Your restraints will keep you in that chair and nothing you do will get you free. You can't help him," Shant says forcefully, "unless you tell me what I want to know."

"I can't tell you what I don't know, Shant. I don't know how to make you believe me."

"You want me to believe you?" Shant shouts, "Then tell me what I want to hear! Tell me where Titus is!"

"I don't know, God damn it!"

"Four minutes," Thug 1 announces.

"Please," Peter begs (because that is exactly what he is doing), "Please, I don't know anything. I swear."

Shant sighs heavily, wiping his hand over his face, "Well, then. I guess it doesn't matter if I bring him back or not. If he's of no use to me alive, then he's better off dead."

Peter panics. This isn't how it's supposed to be. Shant shouldn't be giving in this easily.

Shant smiles, reading the fear on Peter's face, "Do you think he's the only target, Burke? You have a lot of loved ones. I can take whoever I want, even a stranger off the street. And you will watch them suffer and die one be one until you tell me what I want to know."

Peter's breathing is hard and painful, but it feels like he can't breathe at all. A thick chain has encircled his chest and constricts against his ribs, pressing and squeezing until there is so much pressure in his chest cavity that his lungs can't expand.

Shant kneels in front of him, cocking his head to the side, "Give me something, Burke. Anything. And I'll bring him back."

Peter swallows, gasps in a deep breath, closes his eyes, and says, "Memphis."

Grinning at his victory, Shant pats Peter's cheek, "Good boy."

The thugs surge into action as Shant rights Peter's chair. They begin the compressions and the rythmic breathing, a terrible routine that they seem to know by heart. After the third set of compressions, Thug 2 looks at Shant and gives a slight shake of his head.

Shant chuckles, clapping Peter on the shoulder, "Seems you took a little too long there, Burke."

The chain constricts and Peter is left breathless. He's failed Neal; he's let him die (except this is only the third time and there are two more deaths in Neal's future so this can't be the end, but Peter doesn't know that, can't know that, so to him Neal is dead, gone, never coming back). Peter wants to feel angry, wants to feel grief and regret and guilt, but his body has shut down. His world has narrowed to Neal and how utterly still he is and will forever be. He wants to cry, but can't will the tears to come.

And then Thug 1 comes back into the room (Peter didn't even know he left) and wheels in a cart with a white machine on top. Thug 2 has unbuttoned Neal's shirt, leaving his chest exposed and accepts the paddles from Thug 1. He places them on Neal, one over his heart, the other lower down on his right side, shouts 'clear', and shocks Neal's prone body.

One shock is all it takes. Neal, too weak to even cough, drags in one gasping breath, blinks lazily at the ceiling, and gasps again.

The thugs wheel the cart out, and Shant leans down close to Peter's ear.

"We do this again, we may not get him back," he whispers, "When I come back, I'm going to need more than a city. You've got a choice to make, Burke. What's it going to be?"

Peter hears the words, but they barely register. His world is still very small. It consists only of Neal laying weakly on the chair, watching Peter with questioning eyes, and dragging in gasping breath after gasping breath.

* * *

"Don't tell them, Peter."

Peter's head hangs down, his chin resting against his chest. Neal has said the same four words over and over again, never varying his word choice or his tone. It's always the same sentence, always the same strength and confidence.

But Peter can't take this anymore. If it's traumatic to watch someone you care for die once, how horrifying must it be to watch it happen again and again, knowing that you are the cause and that help is never coming?

Neal sees him as a wall, strong and stable and sure. But Peter is cracking. His mortar and brick are crumbling, grinding to sand and dust. He's falling to pieces because there is nothing to hold him together.

"You can do this, Peter," Neal wheezes, coughs weakly, "Help will come-"

"They're not coming," Peter says with a hollow voice, "They don't know anything is wrong. They don't know where we are. They don't even know we're in danger. No one is coming, Neal."

"Bullshit."

Peter blinks, trying to remember the last time he heard Neal cuss. It sounds so wrong to hear such a vulgar word come out of his mouth, and he honestly can't recall one time that Neal has sworn. When Peter looks at Neal, the atmosphere of the room seems to shift.

Pale and bruised and covered in blood, Neal stares at him with such conviction, such determination that Peter is almost ashamed.

"Neal, they can't-"

"It doesn't matter if they're coming or not," Neal says, "It doesn't matter if we have back up. We can get out."

"How?" Peter demands, "You're hurt and I'm tied to a freaking chair. It's just the two of us."

"When has that ever stopped us before?"

Peter snaps his mouth shut and clenches his jaw together so tightly that his teeth ache. Peter can't understand Neal's certainty, but he wishes he did, wishes that he could have some certainty of his own. But then, like a light bulb going off, he does.

It isn't that Neal trusts the FBI. It isn't that Neal trusts in fate or miracles to rescue them. It is only this: Neal trusts Peter. That is the simple, open truth of it all. It doesn't matter how dire the circumstances are or could become. Neal trusts Peter and he always will.

And Peter trusts Neal.

"Alright. Yeah, I get it."

"You sure?" Neal asks, "Cause I can elaborate."

Peter smirks, the action feeling foreign on his mouth, "Nah, I'm good. Sorry, I lost my head for a minute."

"It's okay," Neal says softly, the energy draining out of him now that he's certain Peter is all there, "What did you tell them anyway?"

"Nothing that they'll understand," Peter murmurs, "It's what I'm going to tell them next that worries me."

"Don't tell them, Peter."

Peter rolls his eyes, "What are you, a broken record?"

"I read the Mirror investigation," Neal tells him softly, "I remember Titus."

Peter raises his eyebrows, "I didn't think you knew anything about it. Why did you look into it?"

"It was right after I started working with you," Neal admits, "I knew how you worked to catch me, but I didn't know how you worked otherwise. I was doing research."

"On me," Peter says dryly.

Neal smirks, "You mad?"

"Mad? No. A little unnerved, maybe."

Neal chuckles and says, "The Mirror operation was done well. You did great work."

"Gee, thanks."

"But you can't tell them anything."

"So I gathered," Peter mutters, "but just so we're on the same page, you want to tell me why exactly?"

"Because Titus had a daughter."

Peter blanches as everything comes flooding back to him from Operation Mirror. He remembers the court date and the last time he saw Titus. He remembers thanking him, grudgingly, for his testimony and then watching him walk away with two marshalls flanking him, and when he reached the door way, Peter remembers looking back and watching a tiny girl with dark red hair running into Titus's arms and latching on to his neck like a vice.

"Cassie."

Neal nods, "She went with him when he joined WitSec. If Shant finds out where Titus is, he'll go after him guns blazing and he won't-"

"He won't care who gets caught in the crossfire," Peter finishes and hangs his head in defeat.

Maybe he could have lived with selling out one man's life to save Neal's. He isn't deliusional; he knows if he did, he'd never forget it and never forgive himself for it, but he could have lived with it if Neal were alive. But betraying a little girl, putting her in harm's way, that was something he could never live with, and neither could Neal.

Peter meets Neal's eyes, silent acceptance passing between them.

"Don't tell them, Peter."

* * *

Shant comes back after what seems like hours, takes one look at Peter, and sighs with frustration.

"You're making this harder than it has to be, Burke."

He fans his hand out toward Neal, and the thugs take their que. Peter struggles against his restraints, barely even feeling them slice farther into his skin. They've been rubbed raw and bloody, but he doesn't care about the pain. All he cares about is the terrified look on Neal's face as Thug 1 steps closer.

"Shant, don't! Please, don't do this!" Peter shouts, but the words sound worthless even in his own ears. And Thug 1 places his hands over Neal's mouth. Thug 2 barely even has to hold Neal down as his body is too weak to fight him off.

"I'm getting tired of asking, Burke. Maybe this time I'll just kill him. Maybe this time he'll just stay dead."

"Please," Peter whispers, "I can't tell you anything. I don't know anything-"

"Maybe I'll let you go after I kill him. I'll move on to another agent from the case, work them over, get the information I need-"

"-I'm begging you. I don't know. I don't know-"

"-I'll get Titus, but you'll be alive and well. Living with the fact that your best friend-"

"Stop!"

"-is dead-"

"Please, God damn it!"

"-because of you!"

Shant stares at Peter. Peter stares at Neal. Neal stares at nothing.

* * *

_The fourth time Neal dies, Peter asks him to stay dead. If he doesn't come back, they can't hurt him anymore. He'd be free and it'd be over. If Neal stayed dead, then they couldn't kill him again._

* * *

Peter cries as they try to shock Neal back from the grave. He hangs his head and lets the tears fall from the tip of his nose. He hears the charge from the machine and the sound of Neal's body arching as the electricity flows through it. They've shocked him twice now, but Neal doesn't respond.

Shant leans against the wall and lights a cigarette, blowing the smoke lazily out of his mouth and watching it swirl towards the lights above.

Neal's body arches a third time. Thug 2 takes his pulse and frowns.

"It's thready, but there," he says and frowns deeper, "but he's not breathing."

Thug 1 applies the pump as Thug 2 leans over Neal's inert form. Finally, Neal breathes, but he doesn't open his eyes.

"Well, it looks like his body has finally had enough," Shant says, "So here's how it's going to go, Burke. One more chance to tell me what I need to know. One more chance to earn your friend's life and your freedom. If you don't, we'll finish him. And believe me, if we play this game again, he's not coming back."

Peter wearily lifts his head, stares at Shant through his tear-blurred vision, and says in a choked, hoarse voice, "You're going to hell, Shant."

"Yeah," Shant smirks, placing his cigarette in his mouth, "You sure about that?"

"Yes, because I'm going to put you there."

Shant laughs. His laughter echoes long after he and his thugs leave, and Peter is left alone with his unconscious, barely breathing friend.

"I'm so sorry, Neal," Peter whispers to the room, "I promised not to tell them, but I don't know how we're going to get out of here. When they come back...it's over, Neal. I'm so sorry."

"You sure about that?"

Peter snaps his head up, surprised to see Neal awake and smirking at him. His eyes, dazed and clouded with pain, glint with a fantastic secret. And for the first time since this nightmare began, Peter dares to hope.

"I thought you were passed out," Peter says.

"So did they."

And then Neal raises his left arm. At first, Peter doesn't grasp the significance of this. All he sees is the raw, angry wound leaking blood in rivulets down Neal's arm. But then Peter sees the small knife in Neal's hand and that Neal's arm is _off_ the arm rest, and Peter smiles.

"You son of a bitch," Peter grins, "You God damned son of a bitch."

Neal chuckles at Peter's sudden onset Tourette's syndrome as he painfully twists his body and reaches over to sever the tie around his wrist. When it's free, Neal attempts to sit up, but once he's upright his face pales and turns slightly green.

"Breathe through it, Neal," Peter urges, "Just take your time."

"We don't have time," Neal says, "They'll come back."

"He's been giving us about twenty minutes in between. Don't push yourself too hard."

Neal takes a deep breath and slices the knife through the tie around his feet. Slowly, he plants his feet on the ground, braces himself, and stands.

And promptly falls to his knees.

Peter swears under his breath, jerking against his ties in an instinctual reaction to help his friend. Neal throws out his hands to catch himself, and the knife skitters across the dirty linoleum, coming to rest near the leg of Peter's chair. Neal cringes and bites back a pained cry as he holds his injured arm to his stomach.

"Easy, Neal," Peter says softly, "You can do this. Are you okay?"

"My arm," Neal hisses, "Damn, that hurts."

"You just have to get one of my arms free, Neal," Peter tells him, "I can do the rest. You just have to get to me."

Get to Peter. Neal can do that. But he knows that if he stands, he's just going to go back down again. So he does the only thing he can.

Neal crawls.

Peter watches him, holds his breath until his chest hurts every time Neal stumbles. Blood, dried and fresh, coats his arm and stains his shirt, and makes him a ghastly sight. Peter wants to tell him to stop, to just lay down and rest because he can see how much he hurts. Peter wants to carry the burden, but he can't do anything tied to this damn chair.

"When we get out of here," Peter says as Neal inches closer, "I'm buying lunch."

"I think," Neal grunts, "that it's still my turn."

Peter shakes his head, "No, I'm going to take you to the most expensive place in town. If they don't have any reservations, I'll flash my badge if I have to."

"Peter," Neal pants, pausing to catch his breath, "are you asking me out on a date?"

"I'm giving you something to look forward to."

Neal raises his eyes and pulls himself forward, "I can get whatever I want on the menu?"

"Lobster and steak if you want it."

Pull. Thud. Pause.

And repeat.

"What about wine?"

"Your choice. Best on the list."

Pull. Thud. Pause.

And repeat.

"Dessert?"

"As much as you want."

Neal falls to his side, barely able to move his injured arm up and away before he falls on it. He hisses in pain, but smiles up at Peter, his head next to Peter's foot and the knife gripped tightly in his fist.

"You know," Neal pants, "that people will talk."

"If we get out of this, they can talk all they want. At least we'll be able to hear it."

Neal grunts in agreement and slowly rises to his knees. He has to fight off a wave of vertigo before he carefully slices through the zip tie. He starts to wobble to the side, but Peter reaches out and steadies him. Neal, too exhausted to form words, clasps Peter's hand with his and hands over the knife.

"Your turn," he mutters as he slumps down.

Peter quickly frees his other arm, pocketing the knife and falling to his knees beside his friend. His relief is palpable, almost tangible. More times than he cares to count, he thought he would never be able to touch his friend again, that their lives would have ended in this tiny cubicle filled with dust and without windows. To be able to rest his hand on Neal's shoulder, to feel his body shiver, to watch his chest rise and fall, is a blessing he will be eternally grateful for.

"What's the plan, Butch?" Neal asks.

"We need to find a phone," Peter says, "and then we need to find a place to hide."

Neal furrows his forehead, "Aren't you going after them?"

"Neal, you're in no condition to be chasing criminals."

"I'm not, but there's nothing wrong with you."

Peter glares, "Do you really think I'm leaving you here so I can go and play cowboy?"

"He'll just go after someone else."

"Forget it, Neal."

"Peter-"

"I'm not leaving you!" Peter hisses and Neal clamps his mouth shut, raising an eyebrow at the ferocity of Peter's words. Peter hangs his head and sighs deeply before meeting Neal's eyes, "I am not leaving you. We'll get somewhere safe and stay there, together. Someone else can catch Shant and his goons."

Neal nods, "Alright. Okay."

Peter squeezes the back of Neal's neck and stands, moving about so he can hide the sudden tears stinging his eyes. He won't admit it out loud, but he knows that this nightmare has affected him deeply, more than he could have ever thought possible. He wonders how many nightmares he will have after this, dreams of Neal lifeless and cold, of Neal dying and staying dead. The therapy bill is going to be through the roof.

He helps Neal to the door and props him against the wall as he tests the knob. It doesn't surprise him that it's locked, but it does dishearten him. Because now, once again, he must pass the burden on to Neal.

"Help me up," Neal says as soon as Peter looks at him. Peter does and steadies him as he examines the lock, "Give me the knife."

Peter looks on in amazement as Neal picks the lock with only a pocket knife in under a minute. When the lock finally gives, Neal sags against Peter, smiling faintly as he hands over the knife.

"Nice job, Sundance."

Peter cracks the door, holding his breath and the tiny knife that is his only weapon. To his relief (alarm) there is no one guarding the door. Dread circles in his gut like a black snake, slithering and cold. Shant is intelligent; he knows what he's doing. So why would he leave his prisoners, one of whom had already successfully escaped one prison, unguarded?

"You ready?"

Neal glances up at him, "Do you really have to ask?"

Grinning, Peter hefts Neal's arm over his shoulder, and together, they step out of their cell.

* * *

They almost make it. Almost. But as the saying goes, almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

Shant has hidden them in an office building only three blocks from the Bureau. The top two floors are under construction, a renovation to turn them into a dental office. Power tools lay strewn across the floor and clear plastic tarps hang like ghosts through out the level. The tiny cell they'd been kept in is in the center of it all, a tiny examining room that has been gutted and left untouched. It's genius really, to bring them there. It's still within Neal's radius, and it's Friday. No one would be back for the weekend which meant no one would be able to disturb them. And the floor beneath them is vacant so no one would hear them scream.

Not trusting their luck, Peter hurries to the elevator, praying fervently that whatever guardian angel is watching over them will keep the bastards at bay until they are safe on the ground floor. His heart pounding wildly, he shoves Neal inside the elevator and only when the doors slide shut, does he breathe a sigh of relief.

"Well," Neal says from the floor, "that was anti-climactic."

Peter chuckles, "Prefer the big shoot out, do you?"

Neal shrugs, "Would have made for a better story."

Shaking his head at Neal's gallows humor, Peter has a moment of his own genius. He presses the emergency call button. Judging from the wide smile on Neal's face, he agrees with Peter's brilliant assessment of himself.

_"This is emergency services. How can I help you?"_

"This is Agent Peter Burke of the FBI. I need officers and medical assistance sent to this address. Three heavily armed criminals are loose in this building. They've injured my partner and held us hostage for hours."

_"Right,"_ the woman on the other line scoffs, _"and these criminals just let you out so you could ride the elevator?"_

Neal snorts as Peter's face reddens and his hands clench. He so doesn't need this right now.

"Listen, honey. I don't care if you think this is prank or not. It's your job to respond to an emergency call. Now right now, my friend is bleeding heavily from a knife wound and the men who did it to him could show up at any minute. So do me a favor and pull your head out of your ass and do your god damned job."

The silence that fills the elevator is almost deafening. Peter wonders if he's just screwed up their best chance at rescue and the thought of failing nearly crushes him.

_"Officers have been dispatched,"_ the woman, now notably humbled, tells them, _"Help will be there shortly."_

Peter sighs and leans against the wall heavily, "Thank you."

Peter hits the lobby button and leans his back against the wall. From his place on the floor, Neal looks up at Peter, still pale, still in pain, but smiling. And Peter smiles back because it's over and they've survived. They've won (except they haven't because there is still one more time left, once more that Neal stops breathing and his heart stops beating, so they haven't won, not at all, but Peter can't know that so he is happy and relieved and so very unprepared.)

The elevator descends and to Peter's absolute horror, it stops one floor down.

Because of course Shant wouldn't leave them completely alone. He knows there are only two ways down from that floor, the elevator and the stairs. So he plants his thugs accordingly, knowing that if they did escape they'd have to choose one or the other, and his men would be there to catch them.

The door slides open, revealing Thug 1 looking entirely too smug and holding a 9 millimeter Beretta in their general direction.

"Took you long enough," he smirks, motioning for them to step out of the elevator.

Peter steps forward, giving Neal a meaningful glare, and presses the lobby button again, lunging for the gun. Thug 1 shouts and curses out loud as Peter shoves the gun up and away and tackles him to the ground. He's fighting like a man possessed, punching and clawing and kicking. He is desperate to keep Neal safe and he will do everything in his power to finish his job.

Behind him the elevator door slides closed. He hears Neal's worried voice call his name, but it is muffled as the elevator descends.

He's done his job.

* * *

When this is over, Neal is going to have words with Peter. His self-sacrificing bullshit had to end. What happened to staying together? Getting out together? Key word here being _together_.

He pulls himself up from the floor, grunting as pain laces up his arm and through his chest. It steals his breath and makes his head spin. All he wants is to lay down on this floor and pass out, pretend that all of this has been a horrible dream and wait for someone to come get him. But Peter needs him.

There is no rest for the weary.

The elevator glides to a stop on the next floor down. He raises his eyes as the doors slide open, already knowing that nothing good waits behind them. Shant lurks somewhere in this building. So does Thug 2 and they aren't going to let him just walk away.

As the door opens, Shant appears, leaning casually against the elevator bank and grinning. Neal presses himself into the corner, wishing he could make himself smaller and smaller until he just disappears. Shant steps onto the elevator and presses the 'door close' button. As Shant hits cancel and then selects the floor above him, Neal closes his eyes and starts praying.

It's going to be a long ride.

* * *

Peter takes out Thug 1 without much effort. His anger fuels him, makes him invincible. He slams his fist into Thug 1's face again and again, feeling a sick satisfaction as he feels bone break and cartilage give and blood spray. His hand is aching by the time he's dropped Thug 1 to the ground, and he's breathing hard, but the anger still surges through him like a tidal wave.

He wants to find Shant.

Grabbing the 9 mil. and shoving it in his waistband, he staggers to his feet and heads for the stairs. Thug 2 is probably waiting for him there, but he doesn't care. He's itching for a fight.

Then, as his hand hits the stairwell's door knob, the elevator chimes behind him. He stills, paralyzed by the horrible realization that it's come _up_ and not down. As the gears work to pull the door open, Peter turns.

Shant is kneeling in the elevator car, his hands wrapped tightly around Neal's throat. Neal's arms are thrown to the sides, his mouth is open in a silent plea for help that wouldn't come in time, and his eyes are staring at the dim lights above him. He doesn't move. His chest doesn't rise and fall. His fingers don't twitch.

Shant lifts his head, sees Peter standing twenty feet away, a mask of undeniable pain and fury written across his face, and drops Neal's body in the elevator's door way.

As he stands, he smiles.

* * *

_The fifth time Neal dies, Peter loses control. Whatever morals or ethics he's been holding on to through out their nightmare fall away, and for the first time in his life, he relishes the chance to kill a man in cold-blood._

_And that's exactly what he does._

* * *

Shant sees Peter raise the gun a moment before Peter fires, but it's enough time for him to dodge to the side and disappear into the waves of plastic. Peter charges forward and stumbles as he nears Neal. With the gun still raised, Peter drops beside his friend and places a shaking hand against his pulse point.

He can't feel anything.

"Did you think you'd saved him, Burke?"

Peter swallows down hot sobs as he stands. He whirls toward the direction Shant's voice came from, intent on using every last round from the gun in his hands.

"Did you think you were home free and that you'd send your little minions after me, lock me up tight in a cell where I would rot away the rest of my existence? Was that the little day dream running through your head?"

"Keep talking," Peter orders hoarsely, "I'm going to find you."

"If it makes you feel any better, I wasn't going to let either of you live. I was always going to kill him. So if you think about it, you failed before you even started."

Peter turns as a shadow dashes across the plastic tarps. He's in a maze, unguided and lost, but all he can think about is ending Shant at any cost. He lets the gun lead him through the tarps only to come against the far wall. Growing frustrated, he spins around and searches for any sign of his enemy.

"Do you want to know what his last words were, Burke?"

The force of Shant's words are like a physical blow. Like ice in his veins. Like an invisible wall in front of him. Like a hundred other metaphors that stop him in his path and send grief cascading through him.

"He told me, 'Peter's going to get you'. Funny, isn't it? Right up until the end, he was blindly believing in you. But we both know that isn't true, don't we, Burke?"

"Shut up," Peter mutters.

"If you cared, you would have given me what I wanted right away. You wouldn't have let him suffer."

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, breathes deep, tries to shut out the untrue (god damn it, he cared) words.

"You wouldn't have let him die."

"Shut up!"

Shant comes out of the shadows, flying through the tarps like a banshee. They fall to the ground in a tangled heap of flailing limbs, both of them fighting for the gun, desperate to be the victor. Shant presses his elbow into Peter's throat, crushing his Adam's apple as his fingers scrabble over the gun handle. Peter chokes and then lashes out, shoving his knee into Shant's groin as hard as he physically can. Shant screeches in pain and back hands Peter, but Peter isn't done fighting.

How can he be done, when he has so much too fuel his anger?

He sees Neal in his mind's eyes, lying tied to that God awful chair (he is never going to the dentist again, he swears on his grandmother's grave) and not moving, not breathing. He sees Neal's blood on the floor, on his shirt, on the elevator's wall. He sees Neal _crawling_ across grimey linoleum, too weak to get to his feet, and gasping for breath as his body fights to stay awake.

He sees Neal die once (please don't die), twice (come back), three times (keep breathing), four (don't leave me).

Five (gone forever).

With an enraged shout, Peter lashes out and slams his fist into Shant's cheekbone again and again until he feels it crack. He presses his thumb into his eye socket, grounding it down until Shant screams and rolls off of him. And now Peter has the advantage. He brings the gun level to his chest just as Shant flings himself back onto him. Their hands are grappling for control, twisting the barrel of the gun in every direction.

And then Peter slips his finger down and pulls the trigger.

He's not sure where the gun is actually aiming, doesn't give himself time to think about it. He just acts. The gun explodes against his chest, the recoil sending a mighty jolt through his arm all the way up to his shoulder. The heat from the shot singes his shirt and burns his finger tips.

But all he feels is satisfaction.

Shant's eyes are wide as he tumbles away, falling limply against a pillar, wrapped in a clear tarp now smeared red. He presses his fingers over the dime sized hole near his heart, pink foaming blood frothing over his lips as his lungs fill with blood where the bullet pierced his flesh. His heart shudders in his chest, pulsing frantically as it tries to compensate for the damage done to it.

Peter stands as Shant falls, the gun held limply in his fingers.

"Never..." Shant gasps, chokes over blood and words, "N'ver thought...you'd do it."

He laughs as blood coats the back of his throat and fills his lungs. He dies with a twisted smile on his face, staring off into nothing as the tarp falls from the ceiling and covers his face.

The satisfaction he'd felt moments before melts away, and all Peter is left with is infallible and genuine grief.

He drags his body back to the elevator. Briefly, he wonders where the authorities are, if they've even shown up yet, but the thought quickly fades from his mind. He is consumed with the thought of Neal lying alone on a filthy elevator floor. He can't leave him like that.

As he nears the back of the elevator shaft, Thug 2 appears.

Peter doesn't have a chance to aim his weapon as Thug 2 aims his Beretta at his head.

"Where's Shant?" Thug 2 asks.

"He's dead," Peter answers. There is no point in denying it. No point in trying to stall or distract. There is nothing he can do to steer a bullet away from him now.

Thug 2 glances over Peter's shoulder, but doesn't react in the slightest to Peter's statement.

"Drop your gun."

Peter, reluctantly, obeys, dropping the Beretta to the right. He watches Thug 2 expectantly, wishing he could kiss Elizabeth once more before he dies, tell her how much he loves her and how beautiful and perfect she is, tell her how blessed he is to have had her in his life.

"Stay there," Thug 2 orders, "until I'm gone."

Peter blinks, confused by his unexpected show of mercy, "You think you're just going to walk away from this-"

"That's exactly what I'm going to do," he cocks his head to the side, "unless you plan to stop me."

"Aren't you going to kill me?"

"Do you want me to?"

"No," Peter says quickly, raising his hands, "I just want to know why."

"I have my reasons," he says, stepping back, "You might want to tend to your friend. He's not looking too hot."

And then he pivots on his heel and disappears into the tarps. Stunned by his actions, Peter stands still as stone, and then his last few words catch up to Peter and he stumbles around the corner, daring to hope against hope.

Neal is lying where Shant left him, but not in the same way. There is a thick bandage, stained red, wrapped around his left arm. His eyes are closed and his head is tilted away. But none of this is what stops Peter in his tracks.

Neal is breathing.

Still believing that this is a trick of his mind (grant me this miracle and I'll never ask anything again), Peter kneals beside him, reaching out his shaking hand and letting it hover over Neal's chest. He wants this to be real, but he's afraid if he touches Neal it will all fade away like a mirage.

But then Neal moans and shifts.

Peter exhales so forcefully that it actually hurts. He drops his head and lets out a hot sob, and throwing caution to the wind, he gathers Neal in his arms, holding him tightly in an embrace that he doesn't want to end. Neal moans again, but doesn't open his eyes.

Peter, refusing to break the physical contact (don't you disappear on me, don't let this be a dream, don't leave), shuffles into the elevator and presses the lobby button. He rests his head against the wall, Neal still clutched to his chest, closes his eyes, and let the tears slip down his face unchecked.

It's over. They've survived. They've won.

* * *

_The first time Neal wakes up, Peter is right beside him. He is in a hospital room, surrounded by vases of flowers and helium balloons and get-well cards, and Peter is slumped in a reclining chair, a thin blanket haphazardly thrown over him. Elizabeth is by the window, curled in a ball and sleeping soundly on the couch, clutching one of the stuffed animals from one of his well-wishers. He knows there are things wrong with his body, but at the moment, he can't feel anything. Except safe. He feels safe._

* * *

He comes awake with a jolt and a gasp, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. It takes him a moment to realize where he is, and a moment more for him to figure out what woke him. When the images, real and twisted, flood his mind, he rubs his face with his hand and leans forward until his elbows touch his knees.

This isn't the first nightmare he's had since they got out, and it won't be the last.

He wonders how the hell he's supposed to get past this. How the hell is he supposed to get over watching (like a film set on loop) his friend die over and over again? How is he supposed to get those images out of his head (they're there every time he closes his eyes) and sleep easy at night? He's dealt with trauma before, but never anything like this.

And then he looks up and sees Neal watching him with blue (bright, shining, very alive) eyes.

The silence becomes thick between them. Peter doesn't know what to say (I'm sorry, please forgive me, I can't forgive myself), can't untie his tongue (they made me watch, I was helpless, I let you die). There are a thousand things he wants to say (I should have done something), but what good are words in a situation like theirs?

"You owe me," Neal whispers, and his voice sounds like sand grinding against glass.

Peter swallows hard, because he knows. He owes Neal so much and he'll never be able to make up for what he did (didn't do) in that house of horrors.

Then Neal smirks, "Per se."

Peter blinks, "What?"

"That's where I want to go," Neal rasps, "You didn't think I'd let you get out of that, did you?"

Peter smiles, full and wide and relieved, "Well, I'd hoped. How much is this Per se going to cost me?"

"Let's just say you'll be back here after you have a heart attack."

Peter laughs and so does Neal, but what starts out as a chuckle turns into a full force guffaw session until they're both red in the face and crying.

And that's how Elizabeth finds them when she wakes up, laughing like they're crazy, crying like they're living.

And Peter knows that know matter what, whatever pain the nightmares bring, he'll make it through with his wife on one side and his friend on the other.

* * *

David Titus watches from his kitchen as his ten year old daughter plays with his wife and his two year old son. They're running through the yard, laughing and giggling, like they haven't a care in the world. He hopes he can keep it that way.

"Are you sure?" he asks, never taking his eyes off of his family.

"Positive. Shant is dead. Foxx is backing off the search for now. The collateral damage caused by Shant's attack on the agent and the consultant is too much. Agent Memphis is starting the search for him again and he's determined to find him this time. Foxx has got other things on his mind."

David sighs and sips lukewarm coffee from his mug, "It won't keep him preoccupied for long. Eventually, he'll come again."

"He still trusts me."

David turns, "I've already asked so much of you. If he ever finds out-"

"He won't."

David hears the finality in the two words and knows better than to argue. He turns back to the yard, "What about the agents?"

"Burke is completely unharmed. As for Caffrey, he'll be back on his feet in a few weeks. The only real damage done was emotional, but they'll pull through that."

"Are you certain about that?"

"Of course. Anything is possible if you have the right friend by your side."

"Hmm," David hums, smiling to himself, "Yes, I guess you're right. I hope you didn't have to do anything too...unsavory?"

"Nothing more than what I have done in the past, but in the end, I was able to save their lives, which is more than I had hoped to do."

David turns to him again, watching as he stands taller, straightens his shoulders, and looks past his shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. David doesn't pretend not to know what he does to protect them all. He knows there is a darker side to him, a necessary side that he only unleashes when he has to protect the ones he cares for.

David crosses the room and places his hand on his brother's shoulder, "I can never repay you, Jack. Never."

His brother smiles, stretching the scar over his cheek, "You'll never have to, Davy. I'm just repaying an old debt."

For a moment, they are little boys again, huddled together in the back of an abandoned building, too hungry to move, too cold to care, relying only on each other to make it through the day. Davy and Jacky, two brothers against the rest of the world. Until life got in the way and kept them apart for nearly twenty years, driving them to do unspeakable things to survive.

But here they are, standing side by side again.

David steps back, reluctant to see him go, "I guess I'll be seeing you."

Jack grins, salutes his older brother with two fingers, and then disappears.

Like a breath stolen away.

* * *

**A/N: I hope reading this has brought you as much joy as it brought me to write it. Please review as your feedback makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Kudos.**


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